


the weight of all those willing words

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Fluff and Angst, Healing, M/M, Memoirs, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: James has struck upon the idea of a memoir, and outlined his plans three days ago at the breakfast table, over tea and toast and marmalade. Francis had not understood it at the time, and he does not really understand it now.terror_exe prompt: james fitzjames/francis crozier, domestic bliss, domestic bliss, the expedition, love-making
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	the weight of all those willing words

James is at the writing desk in the drawing room – still.

He had installed himself there this morning, shortly after breakfast, and upon returning from an early afternoon walk, Francis finds that there he remains.

James has struck upon the idea of a memoir, and outlined his plans three days ago at the breakfast table, over tea and toast and marmalade.

A memoir, detailing the expedition, detailing his journey to the brink of eternity and back again. Or perhaps – maybe nothing so formal as a memoir, perhaps just a journal or two; narrative with minimal embellishment. No rich saga, no Odyssey, this.

Francis had not understood it at the time, and he does not really understand it now. He does not know why James wants to put the expedition into words; those strange, horrible years, relegated to a handful of pages in an old notebook. Nor does Francis know for whom this work would be – if it is for the benefit of doubtlessly eager readers, or if James is just writing it for himself, but either way he seems to want accuracy, wants to note down each tiny detail – as if the failure to accurately depict a failed expedition is the worst crime of all.

To Francis, it seems a strange and unexpected urge, as if the folly which nearly killed them is something worth immortalising. For himself, he wishes to put the whole thing to the back of his mind; he wishes to shut his memories out in a storm and let an October rain wash them all away. He has no need for them in the home in which he now finds himself.

For James, however, nothing ever seems quite as simple. He has the pained and overactive imagination of a pained and overactive man. He seems to want to keep his memories close at hand, that he might exorcise them more effectively – hence, Francis supposes, this new project.

It is the latest in a series of treatments that James has prescribed for himself, to keep calm the whirling ocean of his mind, to keep the worst of the nightmares at bay.

As soon as he had regained his health and his strength had returned to him, it had been daily walks – _long_ walks, leaving the house at precisely the same time each morning, roving all over London, returning red-cheeked and exhausted; so exhausted, Francis assumed, that he had no energy left with which to dwell upon the terrible thoughts and images still rattling around inside his head.

Francis worried for him, of course, but he had to commend James for his ability to stick to a regimen, if nothing else.

Gradually, this compulsion to walk had ebbed away, as if a weight had been lifted from James’ shoulders. He found himself content to laze in bed of a morning – either on his own or with Francis (this development, of Francis suddenly finding himself in James’ arms, seemed to be at once a surprise and yet not wholly unexpected, as if it were simply the natural progression of things. Francis supposes it must be) – and James’ hikes down to Bermondsey or across to Greenwich turned into ambling strolls through the dappled shade of Regent’s Park, with a newly retired Irish sea captain at his elbow.

However, as a tide goes out, so must it come in again, and this compulsion to walk has been replaced by a compulsion to write. For the last three days, James has chained himself to this desk, and Francis has watched him with a growing feeling of unease.

It is all well and good devoting oneself to some creative endeavour, but he knows that this will not do James any good. He need not focus on the horrors of the past, not now when the sun is shining, not when a blackbird is singing prettily in the golden-leafed tree outside the window, and a piano is being played in the next house along. The street is full of chatter. London is full to the brim with life; James need not content himself with death any longer.

For the last three days, James has worked from dawn until dusk, from the moment the sun peeks over the roofs of the houses across the street, to the time that it has gone down, leaving him squinting in the dim candlelight. He has filled sheet after sheet of paper with his large, loopy writing. There must be some method to his work, but it looks like chaos to Francis – no order, here, only the mechanics of James’ working mind laid bare on the desk, writing down whatever comes to him, before it can escape.

The words seem to come to him easily – too easily; Francis had forcibly had to take the pen from his hand the previous night, had to steer him from the desk to his armchair and press a cup of tea into his hands. James had been quiet all evening, not wishing to talk and not wishing to listen to Francis, seemingly content to stare at the fire with wide, vacant eyes, while Francis wondered what he could be thinking about.

Nothing pleasant, certainly. He was far from London in that moment; he was under an unfeeling Arctic sun, bleeding through his shirt.

When he was finally persuaded to retire for the night, he slept like the dead, which Francis supposed was a mercy at least – far better than suffering through the nightmares that had plagued them both since their return.

Still, Francis had been struck with the urge to shake James by the shoulder, to bring him back to the waking world and tell him that everything was alright, that nothing would ever be able to harm him again, not now that they have found a home together.

Francis had rather let the front door slam behind him when he came back from his walk, thundering down the hall in his winter boots, newly dug out from a cupboard as the year draws to a close, but as he enters the drawing room it seems that James has not noticed him at all. The desk is covered with ephemera – it is awash with loose sheets of paper, piles of slim notebooks and journals, books and prints and pots of ink.

James has the air of a medieval monk hunched over his illustrated manuscript, though Francis doubts that the monks cursed quite as much (or as creatively) with each misspelled word or smear of ink on the sleeves of their fine wool coats, recently purchased from Savile Row.

“You’re still at it, are you?” Francis asks by way of a greeting.

James offers an indelicate grunt in response, rifling through a sheaf of papers in search of something. “How was your walk?”

Francis is surprised that James noticed he was gone at all.

“Fine,” Francis says, depositing his hat and gloves on a small table, running a hand through his hair. “Shall we have tea?”

“I’ve got some here,” James says, gesturing at a half-empty cup of (cold) tea, balanced precariously on a stack of notebooks.

Francis nods vaguely, though of course James is not looking to see it. Francis sighs a little, a floorboard creaking as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, and he decides to try a different tactic. He would like James to step away from the desk, to turn his thoughts away from a cold and harsh darkness, towards something warm and growing. “Will you be very long, do you think? I was hoping to sit down and go over last month’s receipts.”

He hopes this will be dull enough to break James’ focus – he is _never_ in the mood to talk about accounts and bookkeeping, and complains most insistently whenever he is forced to consider such base matters.

There is no response, however.

“I have a feel we were overcharged for those new curtains in the bedroom. I’ll have to look back through the accounts and check.”

James only nods.

“Perhaps we ought to get another desk,” Francis continues, a little louder as if James had possibly not heard him the first time. “It could go in the dining room. Then we could both work at once, what do you think?”

There is a vague noise of approval from James, who seems to have found the page of hastily scribbled notes that he was looking for, and he huffs a victorious breath. The sound of the pen nib scratching across paper resumes.

“ _James_ ,” Francis says, finally feeling a swell of irritation rise up in him. “Are you listening to me?”

At last, this seems to be enough to break James from his trance. He puts a heavy hand down on the paper-strewn desk and looks sharply up at Francis. “Oh, what _is_ it, Francis, can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Will you not take a break? You will exhaust yourself, working at all hours like this.”

“It’s important,” James snaps, and then he seems to sag as if all the exertion has suddenly caught up with him; his shoulders slump and he sighs. “I’m trying to – to get it all down, before I forget it.”

Francis goes quite still, and after a moment steps forwards to lay a hand on James’ shoulder, his fingertips resting against the back of his neck. “Would forgetting it be the worst thing in the world?”

James blinks, looking vaguely confused and suddenly exhausted.

“It is behind us now,” Francis says. “We have our health again. We need never think of it.”

A tall order, of course, Francis knows this very well. He thinks about it constantly. The faces of their dead come to him in his sleep. He does not think they will ever go away, but there is a queer sort of peace to be found, when one is with familiar companions.

But still, it is true – it is behind them. Ahead, a future of evenings by the fire, nights in each other’s arms.

Francis moves his hand up from James’ shoulder, stroking at his shining hair. “I worry for you, James.”

“What on earth for?” James asks, turning his head to press his cheek into the cradle of Francis’ palm, his eyes closing.

“Because I love you," Francis murmurs. "For my sins.”

James laughs quietly. It is immensely gratifying to see a smile spread across his face, though it does not remain for long. “I just feel like I ought to write it down.”

Francis glances around for the nearest chair, pulling it up to the desk so that they may sit close together. “Why is that?” He asks, taking James’ hand.

James sighs and leans back in his chair, staring up at the moulded ceiling. “It’s–” He cannot seem to finish his thought, closes his eyes and clears his throat. Francis waits patiently. “I owe it to them. All those men who never came home. I cannot just carry on as if nothing has happened.”

Francis thinks of James’ aching joints and his weakened vision, of his twice healed scars, still pink and tender. He cannot possibly pretend that nothing has happened. An indelible mark has been left on him, on both of them.

“Those men would want you to be happy. You’ve earned it. So do all those men who came home with us.”

James’ mouth twists, clearly fighting the urge to argue.

“You _deserve_ happiness, James,” Francis presses. “You don’t need to drive yourself to illness and exhaustion with this.”

James sighs, shakily, and Francis holds his hand all the tighter. “I don’t know what I deserve,” James admits, in a small voice.

“I do,” Francis says, in a way that makes James look at him curiously. Francis leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve been dreaming about a little house in the country, with a view of the sea. And we would have privacy, and peace and quiet, and we would take walks along the clifftops and read to each other and I’d bugger you to our heart’s content. Would you like that?”

James laughs – a real laugh, which makes the skin around his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I imagine I would. Would we have a little farm?”

“Oh, I should think so,” Francis says, smiling too, rubbing at the back of James’ hand with his thumb. “We’d grow vegetables and have a row of fruit trees. And chickens wandering around the garden. Maybe a cow in a field, too.”

James grins. “I think I’d enjoy the sight of you gardening.”

“That’s what we’ll do then,” Francis says, as if it is as simple as that. And why should it not be? “Say the word and I’ll start making enquiries.”

“I can see it now,” James says, lifting their clasped hands to his mouth, that he might press a kiss to Francis’ fingers, curled around his own. “The two of us stealing out of London in the dead of night, escaping to our little cottage. How romantic.”

“Precisely,” Francis says, though in his own head he hadn’t imagined it to be quite so dramatic. He leans in, pressing kisses to James’ jaw in a way that makes James lean in to the touch and sigh. “Put the pen down,” Francis murmurs. “Let me take you to bed.”

James lets him.

The low afternoon sun has painted a swathe of golden light across their bed, and it is as warm and inviting a sight as Francis has ever seen. It is the work of a moment to rid James of his outer layers of clothing, until he is in his shirt and trousers with his braces pushed off his shoulders and hanging around his thighs.

He is pliant and manoeuvrable – happy to be pressed down onto the bed and kissed thoroughly, his ink-stained fingers winding into Francis’ hair as Francis settles into the welcoming cradle of his thighs. This is how Francis wants him, easy and open and needing to be taken care of, welcoming Francis’ kisses, the touch of his wandering hands.

“Our cottage by the sea,” James murmurs into Francis’ ear, as his hands roam up and down his back, pulling his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers to run his fingers over the heated skin there. “Tell me more.”

Francis snakes a hand between them, fumbling with the buttons of James’ trousers, so that he might press his hand inside, making James hiss and apply biting kisses to Francis’ neck. “We’d do whatever we want,” Francis says, feeling the shape of James’ hard prick through his linens. James arches up into his touch. “No one to tell us what to do, no appointments to keep. The only people that we’d need to make happy would be ourselves.”

“Oh, yes,” James sighs, opening Francis’ trousers in turn and pulling out the crumped tails of his shirt. “And we would be happy, wouldn’t we.”

“Endlessly,” Francis says, groaning as James gets a hand around him. “I’d make you happy, James, I’d look after you.”

“We’ll look after each other,” James replies earnestly. “We will.”

“We will,” Francis repeats, and grasps James’ face with both hands to kiss him desperately, hearing James sigh into his mouth, feeling James’ tight hold on him. It is so much, too much, more than he ever could have hoped for in all his years alone. “Our cottage by the sea,” he gasps, when he must pull back for air. “I promise you, James, my darling, we will.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> find me on tumblr (norvegiae) and twitter (norvegiae_)


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